Her Enthusiasm

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I love the way her eyes light up when she watches me talk about her favorite books, The way she eats everything she loves without thinking about the amount of calories it may contain, the way she tries to control her smile when she’s mad at me and I make her smile, the way she gets a little annoyed when someone uses who instead of whom or your instead or you’re (No, I don’t find it condescending), how horrible she sounds when sings with no one around, her Pink Floyd shirts, the fruity smell of her perfume, her sleepy voice, how she has messy hair all the time, her half bitten nails painted with dark shades…Oh!..and how she still wears wrist watches (I thought those were extinct because we’re the smartphone generation) THAT GIRL. I love how she likes to talk more than text and how she gets mad at me when I’m texting and she’s talking…
I’m in love with her. But maybe more than that I’m in love with her enthusiasm. God, I hope she knows how adorable it is.

[[Photo via: www.sarahromingerphotography.com]]

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The Bracelet

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“Suicide isn’t a great act. Suicide is selfish! Do you hear me? It’s SELFISH!”
‘He held both of her shoulders and shook them. The shoulders of a body not suffering from personhood anymore. He looked at her dead eyes, her pale face, her dry lips and what I heard next was a catastrophic sob. He hugged her and kissed her forehead and rested her on the floor again.
He took her hands on his hands and noticed that she was still wearing that cheap bracelet he made her with paper and string, kissed it gently and then took it off her hand. He kept that bracelet carefully in his pockets and promised Veneza that he’ll find another hand for it. He did that because she left him an email before the incident in which she asked him to do so.’ I said and paused for a few minutes while I saw her expression change from frustration to guilt. I continued ‘That’s why he got so mad at you when you said you have it somewhere at home. It means a lot to him, Lisha. It’s been almost three years to Veneza’s death. He dated a couple of girls after her but he always felt guilty. He always felt like he was cheating on the great love of his life and when he finally found a girl who deserved to get that place in his heart he gave the bracelet to her but she said that it was SOMEWHERE at her home.’ I explained.
Lisha was crying now. She was guilty and she should be! Nobody knows Samar better than me. Nobody. I’ve been his friend since he was ten. He’s aware of my feelings for him but he showed no interest in me. So I accepted it. I didn’t say a word. I was probably not his type and I was fine with that. What was his type, after all? Ungrateful girls like Lisha? I didn’t console her anymore. That wasn’t my job. My job was just to tell her how fucking lucky she is. My job was to make her feel guilty for her behavior. And that was done.

((Note: I’m a huge fan of John Green and you may find things like ‘suffering from personhood’ and maybe some other sentences like this which are a part of his amazing creation not mine.))

Different Kind Of Difficult

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And God. She. Was. Difficult. Not in the kind of way girls are difficult and you’re tempted to make them fall in love with you and after the job is done, you lose interest. But a different kind of difficult.
   The kind of difficult that made you want her and once you’ve had her, you want more of her and more and more and more. You just don’t get tired of wanting her. She’ll just drive you crazy and even when you have her, you don’t want to completely succumb to the feeling that she’s yours. You’ll still want her and you’ll drown in her desire.
 TRULY. MADLY. DEEPLY.

These Nights

The days are just how the were. Sun rises as usual, birds chirp like before, winds blow just how they used to.
  If anything has changed after you’ve gone it’s the nights. The nights are longer than usual. The starless sky with a sense of emptiness and your bed screaming out your absence. It denies me my nightly sleep and keeps me abandoned. I just stare at it all night, cry a river and drown myself into it. I close my eyes but they sting because of the desolation that I feel. My heart aches because the balm that cured it ailments is gone. It has vanished. 
  I can smell you sometimes and I abide. I abide in your fragrance. That makes me believe you’re still here somehow. But it makes me miss your warm hugs and kind words. These nights haunt me, burn me, shatter me. These stealthily approaching nights.

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Flutters with pain

By a Syrian artist Safwan Dahoul

By a Syrian artist Safwan Dahoul

But what hung around her neck wasn’t a diamond necklace. It was a noose. A noose of expectations. She was a nightingale singing out with grief. Her grief which had soaked her blood and shriveled her loosened skin making her bones rattle in the skeletal frame. She sang like a nightingale trapped in a mortal cage, she now flutters. Flutters with pain.